


Smokescreen

by bazookajo94



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Photography, i don't have an excuse for this except that I was feeling slutty, im starting to realize that my kink might actually be just neil josten, in-depth descriptions of neil in photos because i think he's pretty, self-indulgent neil appreciation fic, this is very slutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazookajo94/pseuds/bazookajo94
Summary: Andrew had exactly one picture in his wallet: it was black and white, a man sprawled on his knees, shirtless and mottled with scars, arms limp at his sides. He was wearing a tutu—must have been pink, because it looked a soft gray—and he had calf-high tube socks paired with it, no shoes. His right hand lightly held a cigarette, the ember bright in the black and white tones, and the man was staring straight at the camera with heavy-lidded eyes and his head slightly tilted back while he let the smoke seep out of his mouth. The smoke was thick and obscured most of his face, but Andrew could still see the scars on his cheeks, the contours of his lips, the cut of his jaw.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 39
Kudos: 394





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, I don’t usually write neil and andrew like this but sometimes I get in the mood for a little Slutty neil and a little Gay andrew so this is reminisce of their dumb flirty convos in the book (“I’m not a math problem” “I’ll still solve you” okay guys are we fourteen) also neil had time to kiss two girls while on the run so like he might not be super into kissing women because of his mama’s heavy hands but he is super into having game and smooching you can’t change my mind
> 
> so yeah have a slutty neil, as a treat 
> 
> (also tell me ur favorite pic in this chapter mine's the bathtub one)

Andrew had exactly one picture in his wallet: it was black and white, a man sprawled on his knees, shirtless and mottled with scars, arms limp at his sides. He was wearing a tutu—must have been pink, because it looked a soft gray—and he had calf-high tube socks paired with it, no shoes. His right hand lightly held a cigarette, the ember bright in the black and white tones, and the man was staring straight at the camera with heavy-lidded eyes and his head slightly tilted back while he let the smoke seep out of his mouth. The smoke was thick and obscured most of his face, but Andrew could still see the scars on his cheeks, the contours of his lips, the cut of his jaw.

Andrew had first seen the picture on a pamphlet advertising a photography student’s senior project being showcased in the art building, and it had the photo, followed by the senior’s name (Allison Reynolds) and the date (happening in five days).

Andrew had stared at the picture for a very long time, and then he stared even longer, and then he took a pamphlet and tore off everything except the black and white boy and stuffed the picture in his wallet, behind an expired credit card, so he’d never have to look at the boy again but he’d know he was there.

*

Six days later, Andrew went to the student showcase. The art building never had very much traffic, so Andrew was alone as soon as he stepped into the gallery and was surrounded by black and white and gray and him.

He saw the pamphlet picture first, and it was a lot bigger and a lot less grainy and a whole lot more, and Andrew stared up at the boy as the boy stared down at him with smoke between his eyes.

Eventually, Andrew moved on to the next one, where the boy was sitting hugging his knees, still shirtless, but his bottom half was covered by fishnets and ended on high heels, and the boy was hiding his face and hugging himself so tight the only thing visible of his face were his eyes, which were glaring hard at the camera. His body was sideways, so Andrew could see the curl of his back and the expanse of one of his legs, and his head was turned slightly into his glare at the person taking his picture.

The next one was the boy in a bathtub, filled halfway with water and littered with rose petals. The His torso was covered this time with an oversized t-shirt, but his legs were bare and the shirt was just long enough to be a tease. One of his legs was bent, glistening from the sheen of the water with one flower petal stuck onto the slick of his skin. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and his elbows were hanging off the side of the tub, the epitome of lascivious lounging, and his fingertips were grazing the surface of the water. He had sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead, and he was squinting in annoyance at the camerawoman with one eye, the smoke from his cigarette curling up and over half of his face. His hair was pleasantly tousled. 

Andrew took a breath and moved on to the next one, which was a close-up of the boy’s face in alarming detail and clarity. He had lipstick kisses on his forehead, cheeks, and neck, and his own lips were in a lipstick so dark it looked black in the filter, but the lipstick was messy, smeared in all directions around his mouth, and he had a swollen black eye and blood running from his nose with residual streaks smeared up one of his cheeks.

Next was another close-up, but the boy wasn’t beat up this time; this time he had lipstick and eyeshadow and blush and mascara, and it was streaming down his face as if he had ugly cried for hours, his eyes bloodshot, but his expression was furious and his lips were gnashed in an impressive snarl.

Andrew inspected these two close-ups a little longer than the others, noticing that the boy’s irises weren’t quite dark enough in the black and white filter to look brown. In the full body shots, the boy was too far away and his eyes too lidded to tell how dark the irises were. Andrew eventually moved on to the final few shots remaining in the showcase.

The next was the most seductive of all the pieces: the boy was standing draped in another oversized t-shirt, except this one was cut at the collar and the hem so that it was now a crop-top exposing the scars on his midriff, and one of the sleeves was slipping off his shoulder so much that Andrew could see one taut nipple. He was wearing a pair of boxers with hearts on them, like some classic cartoon dad, and he was covered in streaks and smears and handprints of chocolate syrup, the empty bottle spilling out at his feet and pooling on his toes. His neck and shirt and collarbone had fingerprints and smears of chocolate as if he was manhandled, the shirt askew. Right above his waistline was a suggestive handprint that slipped passed his boxers. His hair looked like someone had run their chocolate covered hands through the strands and then tugged, hard. He had drips and drizzles on his cheeks and around his lips, and one of his hands was by his face, and instead of looking at the camera, the boy was looking down as he licked off some syrup on the side of his hand.

The final picture was probably the tamest of the gallery. He wasn’t wearing anything special in this shot—just a plain shirt and a pair of jeans. He didn’t have any makeup or props, and he was sitting in a decaying wicker chair, his elbows on his knees. He was looking up at the camerawoman with an obviously annoyed, overly exasperated look on his face—but he was also looking up through his eyelashes, impossibly long, and Andrew was, well. Andrew was looking back.

Someone else came into the gallery as Andrew was moving back down the line. He was staring at the chocolate handprint on the boy’s waistline when someone stood behind him at a polite distance and hummed in thought.

“I really hate this one,” the person behind Andrew said. Andrew didn’t turn around, debated not saying anything, but it wasn’t everyday (or any day, ever) that Andrew got to fight with someone about art.

Still facing the photo, Andrew tilted his head. “Too much skin?” he asked lightly, though this one had the least amount of skin shown except for the last one. 

“Too much chocolate,” the guy replied. “It took forever to get out of my hair.”

Andrew turned around slowly, not really wanting to see him, having convinced himself that the boy in the photos was too much to be real, but then Andrew turned around and there he was, all lips and scars and eyes, and Andrew almost didn’t recognize him, too used to studying the planes of his face in grayscale. The auburn hair and the icy blue eyes were unexpected, and Andrew almost felt robbed at all these black and white photos when faced with the full force of the man in color.

The man spared Andrew a brief glance when he had turned to look at him, and then returned to looking at the gallery of himself. “I prefer that one,” he said, pointing at the last one, and Andrew turned back around and looked at it, too.

“You didn’t even try,” Andrew commented.

He felt the man behind him shrug. “It’s not _my_ final project. She just paid me to help her, so I did.”

“Was it worth it?” Andrew asked, looking over at the tutu photo, at the exposed scars, almost everything on display.

The man shrugged again. “It was something to do.”

Andrew didn’t know what that meant. He was still looking at the tutu photo, the one he had in his wallet, hidden and never to be seen again. He stared at it and stared, and the boy behind him asked, a little sly, “Too much skin?”

Andrew turned back to look at the boy in the tutu, the one with blue eyes and red hair, and said, “Too much.”

*

Andrew came back the next day. Just as yesterday, no one was in the gallery except Andrew when he entered, and just as yesterday, Andrew stared at the pictures longer than he needed to (today he paid particular focus to the bathtub photo), and just as yesterday, the model came up and stood beside Andrew and commented on his own picture. 

“I don’t get this one, either. Why am I wearing clothes in the bathtub?” 

Andrew stared at the one open eye the guy had in the photo. He asked, “You’d rather be naked?”

“It would make more sense.”

Andrew didn’t say anything, didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t want to see what this man looked like when he said he would pose nude in a bathtub for art.

*

The next day, the man stood beside him as Andrew studied the makeup photo. 

“No, I didn’t really cry,” he told Andrew, as if he fucking asked. “She gave me one of those chips, you know? The Carolina Reaper chip? If ever there was a day for me to finally die, I wish it had been that one.”

Andrew turned to look at the man. He was looking at himself in consternation, his lips pursed. He did not turn to look at Andrew. Andrew eventually went back to studying the snarl on the boy’s black and white face, the shape of his lips, the grit of his teeth. 

*

When the boy approached Andrew staring at the black eye photo, Andrew spoke first. “You should see the other guy?” he asked, and the boy beside him snorted. 

“I wish. It was a premeditated spar with one of Allison’s friends. I couldn’t have landed a hit on her even if I wanted to.”

“You let yourself get punched in the face for a photo.”

“For money,” the guy reminded him. 

“Was it worth it?” Andrew asked again. 

The guy made a non-committal sound. “Suppose it’s nice to get hit in the face every once in a while,” he said, which wasn’t really an answer.

“Does it happen to you often?” Andrew looked over to him finally, looked to both his cheeks, looked to his lips as they stretched into a grin that wasn’t quite real. 

“Suppose it could be worse.” He met Andrew’s gaze and held it. Andrew studied the panes of his face just as he had been doing all week while the boy with blue eyes stared back.

“True,” Andrew said eventually, turning back to the photo. He stared at the kisses on his neck. “People could try to kiss it better.”

“That never works,” the guy said, also turning back to the photo. 

“No,” Andrew agreed. “It never does.”

*

“No, I’m not wearing any underwear, and yes, I can walk in those heels.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Kind of looked like you wanted to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay.”

*

Andrew was staring at the candid photo today, the one that the model liked, the one that was nothing special. Andrew wasn’t sure why it was included, blown so large and stood beside the rest of the photos. He wasn’t sure why he still had a hard time looking away from that one, too, just the same as the tutu photo. 

The model did not meet him today. 

Andrew went home.

*

New pamphlets were out, announcing another showcase about to be implemented in a few days, so Andrew went back to the gallery on its last day, still so vacant, the only guest, and stood before the tutu photo one last time.

“Do you bother all the people in this gallery who show up to look at you?” Andrew asked when he felt a presence materialize behind him. He knew who it was. He didn’t need to check.

“Only when they come back everyday.”

Andrew didn’t turn around. He glared at the smoke spilling out of the model’s mouth. After all this time staring at it, Andrew finally decided he hated the sight of it. 

“Why do you keep coming back here?” the guy asked.

“Why do you?” It felt like they were the only two people ever in this gallery, though Andrew knew it was because not many students took courses in humanities or cared enough to go to a student showcase. 

There was a long pause. Long enough that Andrew thought the boy had left, so he turned around and found the model staring up at himself with fathomless eyes. He said, as soon as Andrew looked at him, “I exist here.”

Andrew stared at the model. He never should have come here. He never should have turned around. He said, “And that’s new to you?” like he didn’t understand, like he didn’t come to this gallery every fucking day because he felt it, too. 

The guy finally stopped looking at himself. Met Andrew’s eyes. Didn’t smile, didn’t smirk, just looked at him and said, “Yes.”

Andrew didn’t want to be here anymore. He hated all of these pictures suddenly, couldn’t stand to look at them, hated to be surrounded by them, so he turned to leave the gallery and the boy followed.

“Will you come to the next showcase?” the guy asked.

“Is it yours?”

“No. Not until next semester.”

Andrew didn’t say anything, just left the art building without looking back. He didn’t want the boy to follow him, didn’t want him to be real. He wanted to burn the picture in his wallet.

“So will you?” the guy asked again, keeping stride with Andrew.

“No.”

“A shame.”

“For who?”

“Me.”

Andrew stopped walking. The model stopped with him. Andrew could feel the boy staring down at him, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to look up or not. The boy said, “Allison took a lot of pictures that didn’t make it into the gallery.”

A pause, heavy and thick. It was so hot. Andrew wanted a cigarette.

The boy went on, “Do you want to see them?”

Andrew finally looked up at the model, blindsided by the sun filtering through his hair, turning it red, turning it gold. He was smiling down at Andrew, his eyes hooded, and Andrew should have burned down the whole gallery.

Instead, he followed the boy home.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sluttysluttysluttysluttysluttyslutty

The first picture Neil showed him when he led Andrew home was him with a sucker in his mouth. Andrew could tell why Allison hadn’t used it in the gallery—there wasn’t anything sultry or provocative about the picture. Neil looked bored, borderline disgusted, with the sucker in his mouth, the ball bulging one of his cheeks, but it was in color, unedited, and Andrew stared just a little bit long at the red syrup staining Neil’s wet lips, the stick poking out between them.

“Hm,” he said, and Neil chuckled. They had introduced themselves on their way to Neil’s dorm but didn’t say much else after that. He lived in one of the single-room dorms, the ones that still cost five hundred dollars but were only big enough for a bed and a desk. Neil let Andrew take the desk chair and he hovered behind him, telling him where to click and what to open to access the files of Allison’s photoshoot of Neil, most of the photos unedited with just a few she had tested with different filters to see if they were worthy of her portfolio.

Andrew had clicked on the first photo in the file—the sucker—and then closed it once he had memorized the stain on Neil’s lips, looking at the thumbnails first before deciding on which one to look at up close. Neil stood behind him, silent, while Andrew browsed. The room was flooded with natural light, and there was no clutter. The bed was haphazardly made, brown sheets and brown pillowcases, some notebooks and textbooks on the floor beside the bed. There was a pen embedded into the tan carpet, and everything smelled like clean and wood and cigarette smoke.

The room was warm, and Neil’s body behind him was warm, and the hum of the laptop filled the room as Andrew scrolled and pondered and finally clicked on the first of the bathtub photos: Neil, cupping the petals in his hand, staring down at them in consideration.

“Dumb,” Andrew said.

“Too flowery?” Neil quipped.

“I’ll leave.”

“Fine, but you’ll miss all my nudes.”

Andrew clicked the right arrow, suffering through more flowery poses of Neil—petals over his eyes, petals spilling from his mouth, petals shaken from his hair—before the cigarette and sunglasses made an appearance. One photo had Neil leaning forward while he lit the cigarette in the tub, and Allison must have liked it enough to turn it black and white because the next photo was edited. There were a few shots with different poses of Neil smoking with or without the sunglasses, but Andrew didn’t pause on another photo until the last of the bathtub pics, taken from a side angle parallel to the edge of the tub, Neil facing forward and holding the cigarette to his lips, a contemplative look on his face, but he wasn’t wearing the shirt this time.

“Nudes,” Andrew said.

“I’m wearing underwear.”

“If I can’t see them, they’re not there.”

Neil snorted.

Andrew closed out, scrolling passed the thumbnails of Neil and the chocolate syrup.

“There aren’t many of these.”

“Everything was sticky and gross.”

Andrew clicked on a random still and saw that Neil looked very annoyed as he sucked on two of his fingers.

“A shame,” Andrew said lightly, staring at Neil’s mouth in the photo. 

“For who?”

“Me.”

Andrew returned to the thumbnails, ignoring Neil’s laugh. He opened the start of the makeup photos, which were at first clean of smudged makeup. The blue of Neil’s eyes were impossible to look away from in the color version, and Andrew spent a long time looking at each of the close-ups, until the pictures turned into a reel of candids as Neil ate the Carolina Reaper chip.

One of them showed snot running down Neil’s face and into his mouth while he glared up at Allison through the camera, a glass of milk in his hand with streams of it running down his fingers and dripping off his wrist.

“Gross.”

“Wait until you see the one I vomit in.”

The next photos were of Neil in the fishnets, and most of them had Neil covering the front of himself in some way but still showed off the length of his legs. The heels were a bright red. There weren’t many of these, either, so Andrew moved on to the spar photos with the kisses, stopping on one where the only smooch marks were on Neil’s scars. This was in black and white as well. Neil didn’t have a comment, and neither did Andrew, so they both stared in silence before moving on. Eventually Andrew made it to the tutu photos, the only ones unashamedly broadcasting Neil’s marked torso.

“You must like these,” Neil said softly after a few quiet moments had gone by when Andrew had stared at a photo of Neil sitting cross-legged and slumped with a cigarette in his mouth and his chin propped in one of his palms, the elbow of that arm digging into his knee.

“I hate them,” Andrew said, stopping on the color version of the gallery photo and not moving on. That same hatred rose in his chest again, flared by the reminder of  _ I exist here _ except now vibrant and red and blue and pink and white, the fire of the ember on the cigarette, the phantom taste of smoke suddenly thick on his tongue, and Andrew looked up.

Neil was already staring down at him, and his cheeks were flushed.

“Is this what you do?” Andrew asked, his voice husky. He was staring at Neil’s lips, not moving.

“What?” Neil whispered.

Andrew stood up, leaning into Neil’s space, circling his index finger and thumb around Neil’s wrists and pinning them to Neil’s side. He said, “Lure men with promises of more pictures.”

Neil didn’t fight back from Andrew’s hands. He leaned forward, lips brushing the goosebumps on Andrew’s throat, and murmured, “Only the ones that come back every day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate sucker photo: neil crunchin hard on a sucker with chunks of it flying out of his clenched teeth


	3. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sluttysluttysluttysluttyLOVE????

Andrew didn’t care anything about Neil outside of his hands, lips, and teeth. He didn’t need to know what he was studying (Photography) and he didn’t need to know what he did in his free time (ran) and he didn’t need to know his friends (he didn’t have any).

All he needed to know was that he kept his hands to himself and didn’t bother Andrew when he didn’t want to be bothered.

Mostly they stayed in Neil’s room and locked the door behind them. Mostly Andrew spread Neil out on his bed, peeled off his clothes, latched on to whatever patch of skin was closest and sucked hickeys into his skin, dragged heavy fingernails across his back, left more marks on Neil’s torso that faded a few days later. Mostly Andrew wouldn’t let Neil kiss back.

Sometimes Neil would gasp in Andrew’s ear, caught up in it all, and Andrew would wonder what Neil’s nails would feel like on his scalp. Sometimes Neil would do something with his mouth, suck at Andrew’s lips a certain way, nip and tug, and Andrew would wonder what Neil’s legs would feel like wrapped around his waist.

Sometimes Andrew made Neil wear the fishnets, the heels, one of Andrew’s t-shirts with nothing underneath, would run his hands up Neil’s legs, pin Neil’s arms over his head, bury his face into Neil’s neck, waiting and waiting and waiting for something, but all Neil ever did was grow warm and grow hot, and shake and shudder, and talk to Andrew about nothing, and ask about his day.

“I don’t think you know what this is,” Andrew said one night as he traced a scar on Neil’s lower back, following it down, and down.

“No,” Neil said, leaning into Andrew’s touch. “I know what this is.” Andrew could hear the smile in his voice.

Andrew curled a finger, and Neil gasped.

*

Andrew never asked Neil about his scars until one day he did. They were sitting cross-legged on Neil’s bed, facing each other and sharing a cigarette, both shirtless, when Andrew said, “Someone shot you.”

Neil, who wasn’t really smoking and instead holding the cigarette near his face, said, “Yeah.”

“And stabbed you.”

“Often.”

“You’re burned.”

“Yes.”

“Were you in prison?”

Neil lips twisted wryly. “Probably would have been safer.”

“A cult?”

“I wish.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“You’re asking about my scars and showing me none of yours.”

Andrew stole the cigarette from Neil and smoked the rest of it in silence, ignoring Neil’s smile.

*

It was months later, when nothing had really changed between them except for everything that had, when Andrew unfisted one of Neil’s hands from the sheets and placed them on his neck, slick with sweat, and sliding them up into his hair. Andrew murmured against his lips, “Just here,” and he felt Neil smile.

*

It was weeks later when Andrew twisted Neil to face him, both of them sitting on Neil’s bed, and Andrew maneuvered them so that their legs were bracketing each other, bent at the knees, feet on the mattress, and Andrew wrapped a hand around both of them, Neil’s hands in Andrew’s hair, his lips stuck on Andrew’s neck, breathing heavily while Andrew stroked.

*

It was days later when Andrew took Neil in his mouth.

*

It was hours later when Andrew removed his armbands and Neil didn’t touch the scars, didn’t stare, just tangled his fingers in Andrew’s hair and tugged.

*

It was minutes later when Neil fell asleep, and Andrew stared at his naked back in the dark, and stood up to leave, but couldn’t.

*

Seconds later, he was asleep.

*

They were lying side by side in Andrew’s bed, making out lazily and listening to Nicky and Aaron argue in the living room, when Andrew asked, “Have you decided?”

Neil slipped a casual finger into Andrew’s waistband and hummed against Andrew’s lips. “I have an idea, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“I don’t like anything about you," Andrew said. "I won't notice." Then he bit Neil’s lip until he tasted blood.


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i just want to thank everyone who read this. this was 100% a self-indulgent fic where i was gripped with the vision of black and white neil smoking in a tutu. 
> 
> i hope to see u all again and i love you

“OMG, Andrew, this is so exciting,” Nicky said, trailing behind Andrew to the art building. “I didn’t even know you and Neil were taking pictures.”

Andrew let Nicky ramble as they walked across campus to see Neil’s senior showcase. He hadn’t seen any of the pictures he and Neil took together weeks ago, Neil fiddling with a tripod and making them retake and retake whenever the angle was wrong or the lighting was bad. Andrew sat through it all, and suffered through the poses, and watched Neil while he worked, for hours and days and weeks, until finally Neil collapsed into bed beside him and fell asleep fully clothed, huffing a breath into Andrew’s hair and dropping a chaste kiss on his ear, mumbling something, Andrew couldn’t make out any words, but he thought he heard his name.

And now today, walking across campus to see Neil’s photos with his cousin, taking his brother later, not sure what he was about to experience.

But then they were there, Nicky exhaling, “Oh, wow,” at the photos, and Andrew moving to the first one, staring up and staring up.

The first was a close-up of Neil and Andrew facing each other, close enough to kiss, mouths parted and eyes hooded as smoke poured slowly from their mouths and lingered between them, almost covering the entire canvas. This one was in black and white, and the burn scars on Neil’s cheek were on full display.

The next one was in color, and it was Andrew and Neil side-by-side, bruised and battered. Neil was wearing one of Andrew’s shirts and nothing else, and he was wiping his lip with bloodied knuckles, his lips pushed and parted, looking up at the camera through his lashes. Andrew was crouched beside him, thumbing blood off his own lips, a cigarette dangling from his bruised knuckles, elbows resting on his thighs. He had a cut on his eyebrow and Neil had a bruise high on his cheekbone. Neil's shirt was torn on the sleeve, as if someone had grabbed it and pulled, ripping thread from seams.

Next was another black and white shot, but instead of their faces, Neil had cropped a picture of their forearms. Andrew’s was bare and facing up, and Neil had covered all of his scars with a violent grip, grasping the skin so hard on Andrew’s arm that he created shadows and intents while the tips of Andrew’s fingers could be seen gripping Neil’s arm just as hard. Absolutely none of Andrew’s scars showed through Neil’s hand.

The third photo was the most playful of the bunch. Andrew was standing in the deepest part of an empty swimming pool with the camera placed on the shallowest level. He was staring out at nothing, fully clothed, and Neil, also fully clothed, was clutching his knees into a cannonball in midair, hiding the sun behind his body and forcing the rays to shine on Andrew at the bottom of the pool. Everything was bathed in the shadow of the deep pool except for the gold in Andrew’s hair.

Beside that photo was another black and white. Andrew was standing in the middle, arms limp at his sides, wearing a white shirt and the heart boxers from Neil’s photoshoot with Allison, and Neil was koala-hugging Andrew from behind, arms crossed over his chest and ankles crossed over his waist. His head faced Andrew and his mouth was wide open as he licked Andrew’s ear. Neil’s lips were dark with lipstick, and Andrew’s impassive face was riddled with lipstick smooches and smears: on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, his neck, his neck, his neck. His hair was in so much disarray that it was obvious someone had spent a lot of time running their hands through it, Neil’s hair equally as tousled.

The second to last photo was a shower shot where they were visible from the waist up, both bare and dappled in water. They were hidden behind the spray of the showerhead, Andrew’s back against the wall, arms at his sides, and Neil’s arms were up and fiercely hugging Andrew’s head close to his own. Only half of Neil’s face was visible, and his eye was gazing intent, almost angry, at the camera, while Andrew’s face was completely covered by Neil’s arms save for one eye, also staring intently at the camera. Both of their eye colors were exaggerated and the color saturated so that most of the photo was just water, water, and sapphire, and gold.

And finally, the last photo: a candid shot, almost antique in its black and white filter, where Neil was wearing an obnoxious straw hat and Andrew, cigarette in his mouth and sitting beside Neil, was pushing the brim of the hat up with one finger so he could see Neil’s face better. Neil was grinning, eyes bright, about to laugh, and Andrew was staring at Neil and just staring, just there.

“Oh, no, Andrew,” Nicky said, sort of choked by his own laughter and his own emotion, as he looked at the pictures of Andrew and Neil together. “There’s no coming back from this.”

“You can leave.”

“Neil invited me.”

“I can make you leave.”

“Neil would stop you.”

“I would stop Neil.”

“After seeing  _ this _ ,” Nicky said, pointing at the candid hat photo, “I no longer believe you.”

“Believe who?” someone asked from behind them, and they both turned around to see Neil in nicer clothes than usual, having to be present and available for questions for the first day of his showcase.

“Neil!” Nicky exclaimed, beaming. “This is so good! Congrats!” 

“Thanks.” Neil rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. He didn’t look at Andrew. 

Nicky turned back to the photos. He pointed at the bloody one and asked, “How did you do that one? You two didn’t really fight, did you?”

Both Andrew and Neil didn’t answer, and Nicky’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ,  _ why _ ?” Andrew watched as Neil’s cheeks bloomed red, no doubt remembering what happened after the fight.

“Well,” Neil said, and Nicky pointed to the cannonball photo, asking, “And what about that one? Is it photoshopped?”

“No.”

“Well, what, did Andrew fucking catch you every time you jumped or did you just almost break your legs every take?”

“Who says we took more than one?” Neil asked, raising a brow, and Nicky laughed, brushing him off. 

“Whatever. Tell me about the makeout photo.”

“We made out.”

“Nice.”

Andrew left Nicky to banter with Neil, studying each photo with a critical eye, staring at his own face, staring at Neil’s. He didn’t know what he was supposed to see in them, what Neil meant for them to mean. He just saw Neil and himself. 

He stood staring at the smoke misting out of his mouth and covering Neil’s when someone came up behind him. 

“Was it worth it?” Neil asked, keeping his distance. Andrew had learned his lesson by now. He did not turn around. 

“Maybe,” Andrew answered, studying the shadows of scars on Neil’s face through the smoke. "But only if you come back every day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my fav pic is definitely the koala hug smoochies
> 
> inspiration for this comes from this one [ picture](https://bazookajo94.tumblr.com/post/115681152919/stuffstuff1757-toshiro-mifune-fixes-keiko) of toshiro mifune and keiko tsushima. i don't know who they are to each other, but the raw emotion i feel emanating from them makes me Feel Things I Can't Articulate. it is the inspiration for the final candid photo and honestly i think about that picture everyday. sometimes i just stare at it forever. it's so beautiful.


End file.
